Here are three poems ‘Autumn’, ‘Autumn Fly’ and ‘Bush in the Rain’ read by me. The poems are illustrated by photographs of the autumn woods, taken by my friend Shanelle.
BUSH IN THE RAIN
AUTUMN
AUTUMN FLY
Here are three poems ‘Autumn’, ‘Autumn Fly’ and ‘Bush in the Rain’ read by me. The poems are illustrated by photographs of the autumn woods, taken by my friend Shanelle.
BUSH IN THE RAIN
AUTUMN
AUTUMN FLY
On 23 August 2019, I announced that my “Selected Poems” is available for purchase in the Amazon Kindle store, https://kmorrispoet.com/2019/08/23/my-selected-poems-is-now-available-for-purchase-in-the-kindle-store/. And soon afterwards my book became available in paperback.
Yesterday (14 November), I received an email from the Royal National Institute of Blind People (RNIB) informing me that “The Selected Poems of K Morris” will be available in braille in the next couple of weeks. As someone who is registered blind and unable to read print, I am, of course delighted that I will soon own a braille copy of my book, and that other braille users will be able to read my “Selected Poems”.
2 previous collections of mine, (“Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” and “My Old Clock I Wind”) are also available to purchase in both Kindle and braille formats. For “Lost” please visit https://kmorrispoet.com/2017/07/21/lost-in-the-labyrinth-of-my-mind-is-available-to-purchase-in-braille-from-rnib/, and for “my Old Clock” please go to https://kmorrispoet.com/2017/08/09/my-old-clock-i-wind-and-other-poems-is-available-in-braille-from-rnib/.
As a child, I learned to read braille from an early age and still own quite a braille library, ranging from “The New Oxford Book of English Verse” to Poe’s “Tales of Mystery and Imagination”. I am pleased that “My Selected Poems” will soon join my collection of books in braille.
For anyone unfamiliar with braille and who is interested in learning more, you can do so by visiting this link, https://www.rnib.org.uk/braille-and-other-tactile-codes-portal-braille-past-present-and-future/invention-braille.
Alone,
At home,
I hear the moan
Of someone up above
Making love.
Or is it just,
Lust?
My present desire
Is to write.
For which I require
Quiet. But, sometimes at night
I hear, up above
A couple making love,
Or is it just,
Lust?
He met
A girl with no name
Who said, “I am Yvette.
Let us not talk of sorrow
But tomorrow
You may regret”.
So he took his pleasure
With Yvette or Heather,
And there was delight
For him that night
And sorrow
On the morrow.
He will borrow
From the bank, again
To play
With the girl with no name,
Who will not stay,
But she is not to blame.
The girl with no name
Has an ancient profession
Which, out of discretion
I shall not name.
Russian roulette must end in shame,
But she is not to blame.
Underneath,
Nakedness.
Desired.
Riotous imaginings in his head.
Every man has his fantasy.
She, sliding out of clothes.
Slowly exposing an untried rose
August has long since ceased to be.
Upon the forest floor,
The oak and Chestnut has shed its store,
Unceremoniously, of conker and acorn.
Mulch for the lawn,
Now leaves feed the ground.
Sex on legs.
Thoughts of beds
Invade his head.
Lust will drive him insane,
Each interviewee, different but, somehow all the same.
“Those shoes, why did she choose
To wear them?
Only to please men?”,
Still, the stiletto shoe, may clinch the interview.
Poetry maybe, for better or worse,
Of the kind we call free verse.
Each muse does her poet choose,
Though some may say, that I lie.
Evening, your dress
Short. Your bought
Caress
Offered only to
Rich men when
They pay for you.
Her dress
Did cling
To her in springtime,
Which caused
The poet passing by
To pause,
And compose
A rhyme
To fleeting time.
But do you suppose
That he did not sigh,
And, in his secret heart
Ponder on more than art. ?